


My friends, there is no friend

by Filigranka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Politics, Regret, Stream of Consciousness, honestly sorta kinda not quite stream of consciousness. but close enough to warn, mention of Finrod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-24 06:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9707114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Giving is all about power.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> B., I love you (also, thanks for beta).
> 
> The title is stolen from Aristotle (but in this crime I'm at least in good company).

Giving, thought Curufin, bending the metal, is all about power. Giving, getting. Making debts, paying them. Celebrations, smiles and politeness and the tactical manoeuvres behind it.

The sword—a gift for Finrod—had to be perfect. Firstly, because it was an old custom and he was of too noble blood to refuse the sweet call of nostalgia. Secondly, because the gifts for the king would be seen and scrutinised by everybody and he was too proud of his craft to let it be rumoured as anything less than ideal. Ideal, brining the memories of his father’s more-than-perfect art to mind, reminding the whole city who should be—who had been the High King of Noldo—reminding the whole city of everything.

Thirdly, Finrod was a king and Curufin was a liege, nothing but a smith and researcher now, for Finrod’s constant forgiveness and grace had pulled out Curufin’s teeth, left him weakened, helpless, wounded. Bare. And he knew, in the deep corner of his mind, that he was grateful, honestly grateful, and that gift was a futile attempt at transforming said gratefulness into something from the cold, ruthless, logical world of facts, politics and economy. An oath, a debt, a repayment. A small part of it.

And he knew he was failing, because the feeling remained a feeling and a debt such as his could not be repay by gifts only, no matter how perfectly made. Emotions could only be repaid in the currency of other emotions, trust—only by loyalty.

He couldn’t stand that. He could stand humiliation and any kind of revenge, he thought, but he couldn’t stand the lack of them, he couldn’t stand true forgiveness, the warm feeling of joy and loyalty it inspired in his heart. He and Finrod used to be friends, once, in the gentle days of their youth, when everything had been—seemed—simpler. They had been friends, not only cousins, and both Finrod’s royal grace and his common gentleness reminded Curufin of it.

Perhaps he would like to be friends with Finrod again. But friendship, like gifts, had its own politics and its own rules, its own loyalties and its own promises. Curufin had but one oath, the sovereign power ruling over his heart, mind and actions. Finrod should have foreseen that—and if he had given the gift of shelter to the sons of Feanor, then maybe nothing bad would come out of it in the future. Curufin would certainly like that, even if he didn’t really dare to hope.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Celegorm, touching his shoulder.

Curufin hadn’t really heard him coming. But that was hardly unusual. He poured himself into his work, losing focus on reality. He could spend a day in the forge thinking he only worked for an hour or two. Just like his father.

‘It’s unfinished,’ he barked back. He hated being interrupted. He hated knowing that somebody else saw him unmasked. He hated feeling that somebody worried about him—something about being the fifth son, probably.

‘And magnificent already. A weapon fit for a king.’ Celegorm’s hand left Curufin’s shoulder. Its warmth lingered, felt strongly even in the heat of the forge.

‘I wonder what meaning they will attach to it.’ Curufin smiled bitterly. ‘Perhaps I admire his strength. Perhaps I want to spoil the joyful celebrations by reminding the king—everybody—about the war at our gates. Perhaps I wish for the king to go into battle and die,’ he ended flatly.

For a moment he thought he saw Celegorm’s face, suddenly solemn, his brows knitted in a single, long line, concern plain in his eyes, in the jewels’ facets. But it had to be exhaustion mixed with him knowing Celegorm so well.

‘They will talk either way, no matter what we do. Meaningless rumours, that’s all our opponents are left with. You shouldn’t care.’

Curufin shook his head. ‘I don’t.’

He was looking at the way the fire reflected in the jewels, multiplying. Light captured into solid state, light hunted and imprisoned, and yet always devouring, always multiplying, never ceasing. Fire, fate, father, father, fire, fate. But those were pointless musings, so he cut them short—

And then it hit him.

‘If he was to die in battle, I’d be the one to make and to prepare his sarcophagus and his funeral armour, wouldn’t I? My—’ he laughed, very quietly, for oh, they would be even, finally, would they not? ‘—parting gift.’


End file.
